The Lists
by Laurenio567
Summary: Sherlock has a list and so does Watson. And only one will measure up for each. Just a cute oneshot. Joanlock
Where had he gone wrong? It happened every time. Every single time he opened himself up to the possibilities, the love, it always ended in flames. And every time it always felt like his fault. He hated making himself vulnerable, especially for something as unworthy as love, but he did it for those he felt were special enough. Unfortunately, many times his love and vulnerability was wasted on said ended relationships. He didn't always sit around thinking about this, except just recently he and Fiona had broken things off due to a bitter argument. He hadn't even pegged her capable of arguing, but she had finally told him that he just didn't have the ability to understand her, and then he protested that it went both ways, that she too could never understand him. She argued that she wanted to feel loved and he argued that he needed space. She wanted more affection, he wanted a more casual situation.

"You should probably call Joan and tell her you'll be late." Bell was standing at the light switch to one of the conference rooms at the precinct. It was past midnight and Sherlock was pouring over old case files, comforting himself that he had solved them and looking for any discrepancies in the notes, then comparing them with current cases to see if any clues manifested themselves. Working was a good way to keep his mind off of things.

"Watson will know where I am." He waved off the common social protocol of giving calls of reassurance. Watson knew his whereabouts. She had that way about her. She would know where he was, what he wanted.

"Well, as a friend, I am concerned for your sleep and suggest you go home." Bell sighed and leaned against the doorframe. "I can see the bags under your eyes."

"I am an extremely light sleeper, you know that." Watson grumbled as he flicked through a packet of lawsuits. "Besides, follow-ups are an imperative in the business of a detective. Cases in perspective are quite helpful.

"I know, I solve things too." Bell gave up that he might ever get home and pulled out a chair to join Sherlock. He could sense something wasn't right. "Something is bothering you."

"I don't have time for a heart to heart." Sherlock brushed him away.

"Fiona." Bell guessed, trying to sound confident in his hypothesis. Sherlock looked up, a frown on his lips.

"Perhaps you should become a private detective as I am." Sherlock sounded even more grumpy. "Except for the fact that Watson told you or you would never have known." He caught Bell in his lie and exposed him.

"Look, she wasn't gosspping."

"No, she was merely explaining why I had not been in to work for two days. I am aware of her reasoning." Sherlock shoved a folder back into the giant cardboard box next to him. "We really need to get some of this organized here."

"So it's been bothering you a lot?" Bell tried to keep Sherlock from dodging the topic.

"You misunderstand." Sherlock stood up and clapped the lid on the box sharply. "It is not Fiona specifically that is disturbing me. It is the situation of the relationship and the repetition of it that plagues my mind."

"I don't-"

"Understand. Of course not. Love comes easier to certain people than others. I for one, seem to repel love like none other."

"What went wrong with Fiona?"

"Same as all the others." Sherlock carried the box out into the main room and Bell followed to hear the rest of Sherlock's explanation. "None of them understand me, I don't understand them, our mutual understanding about how we work together never lasts."

"Well no wonder." Bell chuckled dryly. "You talk about these relationships like they're a business deal or something."

"Well that's just how I work. Is there not a single woman on the planet who will work that way as well?" Sherlock dropped the box noisily onto a spare table and sighed heavily. Bell decided not to answer that question, waiting for Sherlock to realize what he had just said. But he continued to talk, completely oblivious that he was describing everything about Joan. Bell crossed his arms and followed Sherlock out of the precinct.

"Mind if I walk with you for the first few minutes?" Bell pointed down the street. "Car's in one of those parking garages.

"Suit yourself." Sherlock shrugged and started off at his awkward pace.

"So then you're saying you are interested in finding love?" Bell asked, interested to see what Sherlock was really saying.

"I am interested, but I have given up hope that it will ever work for me." He replied cynically. "There is just no woman out there that can be everything I need her to for me."

"Do you have a list or something?" Bell asked skeptically.

"I just know the things that are a must." He replied confidently.

"And those are?" Bell urged him.

"Like I said previously. She needs to be strong, not a pushover. She needs to be somewhat physically appealing, she needs to be interested in my work. I cannot stand someone who refuses to let me run ideas by them. I don't care about her family life, having none of my own, but she does need to understand the relationship between my father and I and she also needs to know what not to ask and not to pry. She needs to be shorter than me, don't ask, she just does. Even though I'm not the most welcoming person, I want her to feel comfortable around me. I want us to have a strong established relationship in which many words are not needed, just based on understanding each other. She needs to be intelligent, able to follow my thinking patterns. She needs to be accepting, not scared when she sees me at my worst. She must be helpful, understand that I have problems, knows not to delve into my past, and also knows that I need space and will not crave unneeded attention. I do not do well with public display of affection so she needs to understand that we will keep that to ourselves. Have I made myself clear?"

"Crystal." Bell chuckled. For a detective, Sherlock was pretty oblivious to something that was so plainly clear. Joan was everything he had just listed. And yet it seemed he hadn't even considered her as an option of romantic interest. Should he say something? He was a bit worried that Sherlock might not take his opinion well. As they neared the parking garage, Bell decided to try it. "And you're convinced that there's no one out there that can be that for you?"

"I've searched. I've spent too much time on it. Any chance I might have now must present itself to me." He stated simply.

"Sherlock, for a detective, you can be really thick you know that?" Bell shook his head. "You wouldn't know a good thing if it slapped you in the face."

"I don't know what you're prodding at, but it obviously is not going to be taken well by myself or you would have said it already." Sherlock guessed bluntly. "What is it?"

"I think you owe it to Joan to give her the credit of those statements." Bell decided he wouldn't back down from the situation.

"Watson?" Sherlock breathed. "What are you implying?"

"I know you have established many times that you and she have a strictly business based relationship, but before we move over her, you have to admit that she fits basically every category on your list." Bell pointed out. "She understands you, gives you space, knows about your past and leaves it alone. She's good for you, definitely not a pushover, helps you work better, she always listens to your ideas, always is working right beside you. She puts up with all your quirks. She's intelligent, she thinks on her feet and makes connections just like you. I don't know about you, but I think she's quite attractive and good news, she's shorter than you. You two are both extremely comfortable around each other considering you've been living together so long. She's seen you at your best and worst and is still here. Now I'm not saying you should act on these facts, I'm just saying that before you write off every woman you know as not measuring up, you should rethink her. Cause I think she measures up pretty well."

"If you are so confident in her character, why don't you ask her out?" Sherlock snapped. Bell almost laughed. In some ways, Sherlock was like a little kid, pouting now that he had lost the argument.

"I happen to know who she's interested in and it's not me." Bell smiled a little. "She has quite a long list as well and I don't believe I measure up."

"Well, Watson knows what she wants." Sherlock stopped at the parking garage and dug his hands into his pockets. "I'm assuming this is your garage, judging by your shoe marks on the concrete over there."

"Yeah this is mine." Bell nodded and faced him. "You don't give that woman nearly the credit she deserves, Sherlock. She's stayed this long. Don't you think that's proof enough of what a relationship with her could look like?"

"I didn't ask for your advice." Sherlock bristled. "Watson is a colleague and that's it." He turned abruptly and loped off down the street. Bell shook his head and headed for the elevator. He had tried his best. Those two were just too stubborn to see what each had to offer.

00000000000000000000000000000

As soon as Sherlock reached up to stick his key in the lock of the front door, he heard it unlock and it opened. Watson was right on the other side.

"I hope I didn't keep you up waiting." Sherlock slid past her and set his things down in the living room.

"I knew where you were." She said calmly and settled back into her chair where it appeared she had been reading whilst wrapped in a blanket and sipping a cup of hot cider. "Though I admit I was quite curious why you stayed so late. Any new cases?"

"Just looking over old ones." He explained as he sauntered back into the kitchen to see if any cider was left. To his dismay, there was no evidence of cider having been made and definitely no extras.

"Sherlock?" Watson called from the living room. He paced back into the living room and saw her pointing to a mug of cider sitting on the mantle. "Yours is right there." He saw the mug, steaming hot and immediately felt a small warmth encircle him. She had remembered. "I didn't know how late you'd be, but I wanted to make sure you saw it."

"Thank you." He took it and looked into the mug skeptically.

"Yes, three and half icecubes." She grunted as she hefted herself out of her chair and took her empty mug back into the kitchen. "Now drink it, you're probably freezing." He heard her rinsing her mug out and putting it in the dishwasher. She reappeared in the living room and began to collect her blanket and book. "And now that you have it, I'm going to sleep." She was already in her fuzzy pajama pants and baggy shirt, her hair already up in a messy bun. Sherlock smiled a bit at her, realizing that she had only been up this late because of him. She really had been worried.

"I didn't mean to worry you." He said quietly. She stopped folding her blanket and looked at him.

"I wasn't worried." She lied. "I would've waited up till three if that's how late you were just because I don't want to listen to you bang around in the kitchen for cider while I'm trying to sleep."

"I see." Sherlock knew she was lying, but decided to let her think she had gotten away with it. Just as she was about to pass into the entryway, Sherlock stopped her, "Watson?"

"Yes?" she turned around.

"I did not know you had a list of requirements for possible romantic interests." He smiled at her lightly. Watson was startled, then smiled back sleepily.

"I learned once from a very smart guy that making a list can be very efficient." She hugged her blanket closer to herself.

"Anyone measure up to yours yet?" he asked. She saw the seriousness in his face.

"Not really."

"Mine neither." He sighed. "Well, of course, you do, but that was just always implied. I hope you knew that." He spoke quickly, then took his mug and brushed past her quickly and up the stairs. She heard his door shut and she stood standing there for a few more minutes. She smiled to herself and climbed the stairs to bed.

00000000000000000000000000000000

When Sherlock went downstairs the next morning, he found a plate of eggs and sausage at his place at the table. A mug of coffee was with it and a piece of paper. It was evident that Watson had been cooking, the question was, why? She never got up earlier than she had to. It was always he who made them breakfast. The paper was a note that explained she had gone out running. As he unfolded the note another paper, this one much more wrinkled than the first, fluttered out and onto the table. He unfolded that and saw immediately lists of characteristics. It was her list. Except, all of the characteristics were crossed out in pen and at the bottom there were a few small words, freshly written:

 _Must be like Sherlock_

He folded up the list and slid it into his pocket. Apparently he measured up too.


End file.
